The Family Way

It's uncommonly early on a cold December morning and I'm sitting in a blue faux leather chair in the delivery suite of our local hospital, holding my youngest daughter's clammy hand as she huffs and puffs her way through an intense nine hour labour. We've been here since five o'clock last night, and so far have seen one staff changeover and drunk a considerable amount of insipid tea, yet we're assured that it won't be much longer.

I stand up and brush the hair from my girl's sheeny forehead, dropping a kiss onto her furrowed brow. She seems so small on the vast rubber-sheeted bed, and so young, too young. Yet I was exactly the same age when I first became a mother. Had I looked the same all those years ago—like a baby having a baby?

Things had been different in my day. Back then, a young unmarried girl 'getting in trouble' was a touch more scandalous, though it was nothing like it had been in the fifties and sixties. At my first obstetrician appointment the consultant referred to me in the third person and spoke only to my mother, ignoring my very valid questions of if I could still go dancing or eat my favourite cheeses.

I was treated fairly and without judgement for the most part though. A couple of the older midwives I encountered during the endless forty-two-and-a-half weeks were a little snooty, asking me pointedly if I would be getting married. I didn't mind. Sometimes I used to say, 'yes, of course. But only when I've worn this one out,' throwing a cursory thumb nudge towards my other half.

Pregnancy never suited me. My first was long and tiring; my final, plagued with health problems. But during my first pregnancy, in the early nineties, mothers-to-be were managed more intensely than today. I'd attended fortnightly, then weekly antenatal appointments, went to Parent Craft classes, and had home visits from my midwife to check if I had everything for the baby, and also to discuss my birth plan in the final couple of weeks.

My daughter, on the contrary, grew more radiant each week. Her hair became thick and glossy and she never suffered from swollen ankles or sciatica. Her antenatal care had consisted of being seen only once a month; she was never weighed, like I had been, and she was brusquely handed a list of recommended layette items at week thirty-two. Her midwife-led care seemed terribly under- managed. I don't think she ever felt ready to become a mother. I never felt ready for her to become a mother.

Even here, in the new-age-y low lit delivery suite we are, for the most part, left to just get on with it. A midwife will pop in every four hours to check how she is progressing, and then she will go back to her tea and chatter, handing us a keypad to press if we need her quickly. It's all terribly high-tech and minimal. I am absolutely terrified. But I can't let my daughter know that, and duly soothe her labour-racked body, rubbing her back until my palm actually shines from the friction.

Her boyfriend hovers sheepishly by the sink; she snarls at him whenever he goes anywhere near her. The polite translation of her cries would be, 'Please keep him away from me!' It's the first and only time I've heard her curse.

My own first labour had progressed slowly too, though I was constantly attended by two senior midwives and a stream of inquisitive medical students. They'd file in, silently, behind their teaching consultant, and would stand at the foot of the bed, discussing me in the third person. I tend not to dwell on the memory of my legs shoulder-height in stirrups, being assessed by ten junior doctors as to whether or not my nether regions need intervention, though the nightmares are still frequent, twenty-eight years later. Dignity and labour are not the best bedfellows.

Childbirth is tough. It's the hardest I've ever worked in my life, in terms of physical stamina, though I was shocked at how quickly the second stage progressed, especially once the baby's head is born. The initial feeling of immense relief is quickly overtaken by an incredible euphoria. My first son was delivered onto my stomach— the hot, damp weight of him startling against my cool skin. Despite the blood, he was the most perfect thing I'd ever seen, and I sobbed unattractively onto his patch of ginger hair, the gunk seemingly invisible.

When I touched him for the first time every doubt, every fear, every answer to questions I never knew existed within me—everything was clarified right then, echoing within his first cry... I wasn't prepared for those powerful feelings. This was a primal love; something ancient and profound and I wasn't ready for it.

When I brought him home I'd sit up for most of the night, simply watching him sleep, wanting to see him as much as possible. I couldn't bear to leave him. He was mine. I'd made him. We were acutely connected and it was difficult to function if he wasn't close to me. And I became keenly aware of my relationship with my own mother, reliving the times I'd been ill, or in hospital; those awful times I'd ignored her and gone dancing, and the difficult teenage years when I'd fought with her... I felt it all again, but this time with a mother's heart, and I was truly remorseful. Our relationship bloomed that year and never wilted again.

From the present hospital bed, a long low moan escapes my daughter's parched lips and she squeezes my hand until it's white. 'I think I'm ready to push now,' she groans, and I press the ominous looking red button on the keypad to summon her midwife. The midwife is wonderful and instructs my daughter gently and patiently. A few pushes later, my grandson suddenly appears between my girl's knees, looking exactly the same as she had when she was born. I feel a sensation akin to a large kick in the chest and begin to weep with an intense rush of love... with relief and gratitude, for my beautiful grandson, (who is bawling angrily), but mostly, for my incredible brave little girl.

"You're so clever!" I sob into her damp, dark hair. "Look what you did, you amazing girl!"

They tell you that you forget all about the suffering of pregnancy and childbirth when you hold your baby for the first time and it's true. To be able to describe the emotion and intense joy of motherhood, I simply don't have the words. But they never tell you what it's like to become a grandmother. It's almost like being made head of a tribe, or being a great matriarch within a herd of elephants. When all of my children and grandchildren gather around me, I feel pride, and the grandest sense of peace. I am Mater, I am Home. It's a primal and ancient kind of love, and despite everything we've been through, I still barely feel worthy of it. My daughter and I are the closest we've ever been. I think, at last, she understands. She finally gets it—the depth of my love..

Back in the delivery suite, the midwife has cleaned up and my grandson is sleeping soundly in my arms. Welcome cups of tea and buttered toast are brought to us and we demolish them quickly. Afterwards, I smile knowingly at my girl and kiss her flushed cheek.

"Welcome to motherhood," I say warmly. "It's amazing isn't it?"

I pass the tiny bundle back to her, gather up my bag and prepare to leave the new family to bond. I pause at the door, searching for something philosophical and profound to say. Winking conspiratorially, I pull on the door handle.

"Just you wait 'til you're a granny!"

(My semi-autobiographical exam piece for my third year of my writing degree. It was accompanied by three very different poetry pieces—a sonnet for my grandson, a free verse describing the awe at becoming a mother, and a humorous poem about childbirth. My poetry will soon be available as an anthology.)